


Rules of Vanishing

by Morveren



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: F/M, Mystery, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2018-11-18 05:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11284455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morveren/pseuds/Morveren
Summary: Here are the rules to survive as a civilian in Gotham City:The first rule is to keep your head down. Don't draw attention to yourself. Don't make eye contact. Walk briskly and with purpose. Don't wear anything flashy that can be stolen and most certainly donotwalk down that dark alley.The second rule isdon'tbe a hero. Avoid confrontations. Walk the other way when you see a standoff. Don't try to help that man getting beat up in the alley, because odds are you'll get killed right along with him. Gotham City has Batman for a reason.The third and most important rule is this:Don'tget involved with superheroes.Or in your case, gun-toting vigilantes.





	1. Chapter 1

The sound of gunshots echoed all along the street, the flashes of muzzle like lightning in the darkness.

Someone screamed a high, wordless cry of pain, only to be cut short by another gunshot.

Red and blue lights flashing in the distance.

Just another night in Gotham City.

You wished that you could close the curtains to it all, put it in some earplugs and forget the rest of the world. But the very thought of doing so caused a sliver of ice to crawl up your spine. 

The curtains should remain open. Always. 

That feeling of doom lingering in the back of your head, that little voice telling you that if you don’t do things the _exact_ way, the _right_ way, then something terrible would happen. A meteor would fall on Gotham City. Victor Zsasz would break out of Arkham Asylum and leave a blood trail in his wake. A train would explode during the morning rush hour.

You didn’t know. Something. 

So the curtains stayed open.

Water dripped from your fingers, making soft _plinks_ as they hit the bottom of the sink. 

Behind you, the kettle began to whistle, a high, thin note that drowned out the gunshots, at least for the moment. 

You set aside the steel wool that you’d been using the scrub yourself and poured the hot water into mugs. And once again, that scratching in the back of your head reasserted itself.

If you didn’t pour the water _just right_ and the _exact_ level then-- 

You paused, watched the last of the water droplets trickle out of the spout, feeling your heart hammering in your chest. You had measured it beforehand, of course. But it still made you nervous, every time. 

Normally, you'd drink everything cold. It was easier that way. It didn’t make your heart race or your fingers shake the way boiling water did. 

For some reason. 

No one ever said that mental conditions had to make sense.

But today had been a rough one. The visions had been terrible. They had always been, of course, but the ones you had last night had you shooting out of your bed and running to your studio, eager to recreate the scene with paint.

Maybe it was some sort of sick fascination or maybe it was a way of purging, but you always felt better after you had painted the visions in your head. Like sucking the venom out of the snakebite. 

Today’s painting had taken nearly twelve hours.

So you decided that a treat--hot tea--was in order. 

The shooting outside had stopped. You could hear the murmur of the police as they talked to each other. It’s not exactly like your landlord paid for soundproof walls. 

Arranging the mug in the center-- _exactly_ in the center--of a plate you headed to the living room. Maybe you’d find something good on t.v. tonight, one that didn’t involve whatever hell some escaped inmate of Arkham was raising.

You opened the door to your living room and stopped. The mug rattled against its plate as the hand holding it shook. 

You were finding it hard to breathe.

The red and blue lights of the police car were still flashing outside your apartment, but most of its color was blocked by a man sitting on your windowsill.

The brown leather jacket he was wearing was lopsided and spotted with blood. He was breathing heavily as if he had run a long distance. Or more likely, just came out of a fight. What called your attention though, was the red mask he wore, gleaming even in the dim light of your apartment.

It was, you noted, almost the same color as the blood on his jacket. You were sure that it wasn’t his. 

When he spoke, his voice had a mechanical tinge, “Can I crash here for the night? Black Mask’s men are hot on my tail and I need to shake them.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out, just a small sound in the back of your throat. 

Instead, you gestured to his jacket, hoping that he would understand.

“Hm? Oh right, sorry.” The man on your windowsill adjusted the jacket, not even minding the blood splattered all over it so that it hung perfectly straight. “Better?”

Without waiting for an answer, Red strode into your living room and sank down onto your couch. If the plastic curtains that you had draped over them bothered him, he didn’t say so. 

You grimaced. Blood was a biohazard and your head was swimming with thoughts of AIDS and hepatitis and all the things you could catch from just a drop of blood. And Red was just...sitting in it.

You made yourself push away the thought, telling yourself that you’d burn the curtains later, the way you always did every time he visited. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. It was just...disgusting. The word bubbled up in your head without your permission. Human beings were, on average, positively crawling with bacteria. And you couldn’t help but think of all the ways that you might get contaminated.

Your throat felt dry. It was hard to swallow. You made yourself take a sip of tea to calm you down.

“So can I?” Red’s voice broke you of your thoughts. 

“Can you what?”

“Stay the night?” He inclined his head towards you and his helmet gleamed. You found yourself wondering, not for the first time, what he looked like underneath it. His name wasn’t really Red, of course. But he never told you his name and you needed something to call him so while he stayed in your apartment, his name was Red. 

You shrugged. “Just promise to use a door next time. It’s not like you don’t have a key.” 

“And bring the cops down on this place? Hell no.” Though he said it casually, you didn’t miss the way his helmet moved around, taking in the small living room. 

Once, Red had told you that as part of his training, he was expected to process an area’s exit points and possible strategic vulnerabilities at a glance. You had responded by telling him that the only thing you were good at processing was how dirty a place was.

The idea of cops coming into your apartment, of busting the door open and letting in all sorts of dust into your living space made you shiver. Who knew what kind of diseases they carried? All it took was one deadly disease to poison your lungs, sink into your skin and just...end it. One mistake. That was all it took.

“You really think the cops will find this place?” you asked softly. You lived in what could only be described as the ass-end of Gotham, so far away from the heart of the city that you could barely even see the towering figure of Wayne Enterprises, a beast of the skyscraper that loomed over the entire city.

To his credit, Red paused a bit before answering, showing that he actually gave your question some thought. “Doubt it. It’s too far away from anything to be of interest. Still, never pays to be prepared.” 

“That would explain the chest Tazer,” you muttered. Some time ago, you had walked into your bedroom to find Red collapsed on your floor. 

When you had tried to help him up, touched the red bat symbol on his chest, a shock of electricity had gone through you. You made no claims to bravery; you had run out of the room, screaming and filled with the certainty that you were going to die. 

A snort sounded strange when it was all distorted like his was. You wondered how he would sound like without it. Was his voice deep and rich, like a narrator in a storybook? Or was it rough and gravelly to fit the rough vigilante image? 

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t realize that Red had swung himself off his seat and sauntered over to your studio.

His voice floated over to you. “So is this the new one or...?”

It took you a second to process what he was referring to.

“Oh no, please don’t!” you yelped, nearly spilling your tea all over yourself-- _Burns_ , your mind screamed. _If the tea spills on you, you’re gonna get burns_ \--as you raced to the studio. “I-it’s not yet finished. You shouldn’t be looking at it.”

For some reason, you felt upset at the idea of Red seeing an unfinished painting, a work of art that was less than perfect. 

That had been a recent development. 

Lately, you had found yourself worrying a little more about the state of your apartment, wondering about the acrid smell of disinfectant and what he thought of you, holed up in this little place, far away from the rest of Gotham.

But Red dismissed your concerns with an impatient wave. “It looks fine. You saw this, right? In your dreams?” 

It still amazed you how he said it so casually, so calmly. As if this was the sort of thing he dealt with every day.

Well, considering how strange Gotham was, you didn’t doubt that there was someone else like you out there.

“Yeah. I saw that last night.” You had set the painting in one of your bigger canvases, large enough that you could work on the details without losing sight of the bigger picture. Your art had been featured on several of Gotham’s art galleries, though most people found it too unsettling for your paintings to ever be anything famous.

While others had said that your paintings held a mirror to Gotham and showed the citizens its darker side, others have said that your art aimed for cheap horror at best and voyeurism at worst. 

But of course, none of the critics ever came to the real truth. 

The only one who ever came close to the real truth was a man in a red hood, who had broken into your home a couple of months ago and woken you up with a gun to your face.

Your art was, quite simply, _life._

Your latest creation was a painting of a grand ball, the kind that you would often see in the movies but never in real life (and not least because you almost never left the house). A crystal chandelier glittered in the room’s ceiling, its light seeming to sparkle off the canvas. Women wearing their best dresses, reds and yellows and blues so rich it almost hurt the eyes to look up. 

Gotham’s richest and finest immortalized on canvas.

It wasn’t a happy painting, however. Blood flowed down the golden steps like a carpet, the wide glass windows were shattered, pieces of it embedded in the patrons’ flesh. The moon peeked out from the broken window, just a sliver of light, like the night itself was smiling at the carnage. 

Men and women were strewn on the floor, their beautiful clothing stretched and ripped as their bodies contorted into unnatural positions. All the while their faces were stretched into wide, perverse grins. 

Beside you, you heard Red suck in his breath and you had to struggle to keep your mind off of airborne diseases and all the things that you could catch just by standing near him.

“I saw it about twelve hours ago,” you supplied. “Do you think...?”

_Do you think it had already happened? Do you think these people are already dead? Do you think we’re too late?_

Red shot you a look. “Relax. It’s not for another two weeks, maybe more.”

“How did you...?”

He bent down and pointed at the moon with a gloved finger, its silver body peeking out amidst the shards of broken glass in the window.

“Crescent moon. We’re at first quarter now. Waning crescent’s not for another eighteen days.” He paused, studying the painting further. “Some of these people are Penguin’s. Could be in the Diamond District.” 

You didn’t know who Penguin is or where the Diamond District was, but you’ve known Red long enough that the two of you had established a routine. 

You waited while he puzzled and muttered over your painting, occasionally touching a person or an image. Waited and ignored the trembling in your fingertips, the urge to scrub the room clean again. 

It was easier, this time around. Easier than the first time Red had visited you in the middle of the night, held a gun to your face and demanded that you tell him about your paintings and why your latest piece seemed so much like the bombing at Gotham bank. You had spent hours, scouring your bedroom, scrubbing it clean until it no longer contained any trace of him.

That first time he had visited you, with that red helmet looming at you in the dark, you had cried. You weren’t a superhero and though it shamed you to admit, you had cried. Cried so hard that even the hardened vigilante had leaped out of your bed in shock and scrambled for a way to stem the flow of tears. 

And when he had touched you, you had cried even harder. 

“Right,” Red said, straightening. “Got anything for me that isn’t on here? Voices, faces, anything?”

You shivered, remembering the cold, high voice in your dream, _Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. For tonight’s entertainment..._

When you told Red about the voice, however, he tapped one of the victim’s faces. She grinned at you, the smile wide enough to show all of her teeth.

“Joker venom. It’s a bit of a signature for him. Makes his victims laugh until they suffocate. That sick son of a bitch is going to get what’s coming to him one of these days.” 

You blinked, surprised at the heat in his voice. He’d cursed around you sure, but never with such raw...hate.

“Red?”

He seemed to have caught himself. Steadied. “Yeah?”

“You okay?” 

He grunted in response. “M’fine. Just old memories. What about you?”

“Me?” you asked, confused that he would ask that. It’s not exactly like you had a fast-paced and unpredictable lifestyle. And you liked it that way.

“Earthquake just outside of Metropolis this afternoon. Affected some parts of Gotham, too, including the East End.” Red glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “You doing okay?” 

“I’m fine, didn’t feel a thing around here.” 

“Good,” he said, in a tone that told you he meant it. 

You were still staring at the woman and though you were the one who had painted her, you could feel the skin on your shoulders tightening at the sight of bloodied smile.

“I never get to see it, you know.”

Red, who had been on the verge of moving back to the living room, paused and turned to you. “Never get to see what?”

“My death.” You didn’t know why you were telling him this; you’ve never told anyone. “Every time I close my eyes, I see someone in Gotham getting killed. But I’ve never seen myself...you know, die before.”

Red didn’t say anything, but you could _feel_ him listening, feel his eyes burn a whole into your back. 

“It should be a relief, shouldn’t it? I see people die in my dreams, then they die in real life. So, maybe seeing myself die is a good thing. But it’s always like...waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know? Like _not knowing_ makes it scarier. Cause at least if I see it in my dreams, I’ll know what to expect.” You traced the woman’s face with your finger. 

The future wasn’t set in stone; Red had proved that many times over, on the occasions that he had used your paintings to stop a crime before it ever happened. 

“Is that what all this is about?” Red asked and even without looking at him, you could tell that he was looking across the hospital-clean rooms, the plastic curtains on the sofa, the floors scrubbed within an inch of its life, the red marks on your arms and hands from scrubbing yourself too long and too hard. 

“You don’t know how you’ll die, so you’re doing everything to prevent it?”

You sucked in a breath. “I don’t know.”

“Cause let me tell you, sweetheart, death’s not as bad as you think.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Red tilt his head as if amused. 

“Really?” you asked, not quite looking at him. “It’s not that bad?”

He let out a hollow laugh. “I got beaten to death by a crowbar. It’s _every bit as bad_ as you think, and then some.” 

You stared at him, deflating like a balloon. He had told you the story before. 

And while other people would be compelled to doubt him, someone like you, who saw people’s death in her dreams, would be more compelled to believe him. 

“I don’t make a point of locking myself in my room because of it, though,” he added.

Heavy footsteps as Red went back to stand behind you. 

You wished that you could say that it was the painting he was staring at, but you knew he wasn’t. 

Words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them; bitter words, ones you wished you could take back almost as soon as you said them.

“Yeah, well. I’m not a superhero.”

Underneath the helmet, you could’ve sworn Red was grinning. “Neither am I.”

You shot him a glance. “So you dress up like a loon and beat up bad guys for fun, huh?” 

“You said superhero, last I checked, I’m not wearing a bat costume. And I’d look terrible in tights,” Red argued. 

Now that conjured up all sorts of unwelcome imagery and you suddenly wished that you still had your teacup to hide behind. Because in your opinion, Red wouldn’t look terrible in tights, oh no. 

Only the exact opposite. 

“You saved me once,” you said. “You. Not Batman. Or like, Superman.”

Several months ago, Red had given you a burner phone, with the instructions to call him if you ever needed any help. 

You had tucked the phone away, thinking that you’d never need it. 

But you lived in Gotham, of course, and crime was never far away. 

When your once-in-a-blue-moon trips to the bank turned into a hostage situation, it had taken Red all of five minutes to respond to your frantic call, crashing through the glass doors with his motorcycle. 

The fight had been fast, loud and utterly brutal. 

Or so you’d been told. 

You’d been too busy following Red’s advice and hiding behind the largest piece of furniture you could find, as frightened by the gunshots as you were of the possible diseases you might have caught from the people who shared your shelter behind the counters. 

The cop who interviewed you said that it was pure luck that the Red Hood hadn’t killed anyone. 

Later that night, after he had climbed through your window (again), Red had told you that it was only a truce with Batman that stopped him from shooting to kill. 

You gave him the key to your apartment soon after the incident.

Not that he ever used it. 

Red shrugged as if to say it was nothing, but somehow, you could tell he was pleased behind the mask. 

“It’s the least I could do.” He paused. Shifted uneasily. “Hey. You know I’d keep you safe, right?” 

That was a weird question to ask. 

“Sure?” Every two months or so, Red replaced the phone he gave you, though his instructions remained the same. 

He gestured to the painting. “Have you thought about what I said?”

“Oh.” You felt your heart drop to the floor, surprised that it made no sound as it shattered on the concrete.

“You’ll be fine--”

“No.” You were already shaking your head, fingertips trembling, hard and you curled them into fists. “Red, no. I can’t.”

“If the Joker is involved we need as much information as we can get,” he argued. “If there’s even the chance that I’m right--”

“I can’t. Please don’t make me. Red. I really, _really_ can’t.” 

Several weeks ago, Red had told you that psychics would sometimes get visions when they’re near the scene of a crime. Something to do with the implanted emotions or something, you had been sleepy when he brought it up. 

And had been jolted awake when he suggested that the two of you try it on one of _your,_ visions. He had suggested taking you to the future scene of the crime and seeing if you could glean some information there. 

You had shut him down. Hard.

You hadn’t meant to, of course. Back then you thought that you’d do damn near anything for the man.

But the idea of going to a place you saw in your dreams, a place where you know people would die--no, that was too much. More than the fear of bacteria or germs or some rare, virulent disease, was the fear of encountering the people who caused so much death. What if they were scouting the place for information the same night you and Red were?

Your friend might wear bulletproof armor and could shrug off injuries like broken bones and dislocated joints, but you were...Well, you weren’t him. You weren’t the sort of person who could waltz in a drug lord’s lair and beat everyone there with your bare hands.

No, you were the sort of person who hid in her apartment, away from the supervillains and the fighting and saving people who deserved it.

The sort of person who’d scrub her apartment clean every morning because nothing scared her more than the thought of dying sick and alone.

The sort of person who could never be anyone’s hero.

You shook your head again; a second refusal. You thought of the blood flowing down the carpet, the men and women’s hysterical laughter, even as their faces turned blue from lack of oxygen, the high cold voice laughing right along with them.

Beads of sweat began to form on the nape of your neck, cold as ice.

No. 

_No._

“I’m sorry, Red,” you said, and if you hadn’t been so scared, you would have been ashamed. “I can’t.”

Red didn’t say anything for a long, long time.

When he spoke, his voice was calm, composed. A stark contradiction to the tight fists his hands made, the narrowed eyes behind his mask. 

“The Joker scares me too, you know,” he said. “Always has. But just because I’m scared doesn’t mean I’m going to let him do whatever the hell he wants.”

Well, can you say to that? Even if you did have something to say, Red was already back in the living room.

“Do you mind if I used the guest’s bedroom? I’m kinda tired. Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up in the morning.”

“Okay,” you said, and your throat felt like sandpaper.

You told yourself that it was exhaustion that was causing the burning in your eyes. But there was no explaining away the pit of shame in your stomach, the sensation of being stuck in a skin that chafed at your very core.

What can you say, really?

You _wanted_ to be brave. 

But wanting, as you were well aware, was almost never the same as being.

You stayed in your studio for a long time, before your own exhaustion drove you to your bed, sure that Red would no longer be there when you woke up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to the people who read this, and of course to MisterPseudonymous, who helped me with some of the harder scenes. This was a beast to write.

You wake to perfect silence in the morning, and that’s how you knew Red was gone.

During the rare times that he stayed, you would usually wake to the sounds of him talking to someone over the phone or rarer still, with the television turned on to the news. 

You lay in your bed for a couple of minutes, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, trying to go back to sleep, trying to stop yourself from thinking, _Maybe he won’t come back this time._

If it hadn’t been for that itch somewhere in the back of your mind, telling you to get up because the sheets are dirty and the apartment needs cleaning, you think that you would have stayed in bed all day.

But of course, there is very little you can do against the voice once it gets started and with a sigh, you got up and slipped on your gloves and mask, kept in separate boxes on your nightstand. 

Stripped off the covers of your bed, the pillow cases too.

Thinking that you should clean the guest bedroom too--though now that Red was gone, you weren’t sure who you were cleaning it up for anymore. 

Arms full of laundry and silently trying to curse away the voice that told you that you were being contaminated by the cloth in your arms. 

In fact, you were so preoccupied with your duty that you barely noticed Red standing inside your studio, still studying your painting.

He saw you before you saw him and turned his head in your direction. It was the gleam of sunlight reflecting off his helmet that caught your attention and you nearly dropped your laundry when you realized it was him. 

Something inside you soared at the sight of him and you very nearly smiled. 

There was a moment of silence, where the two of you just stared at each other, waiting for the other person to say something. 

Finally, Red tilted his head in your direction, an acknowledgment, and said, "Good morning." As if last night never happened. 

"Good morning," you said, not quite knowing if that was the right thing to say. 

Maybe it was because, with a friendly nod, Red turned back to your painting. 

Without saying another word, you went over to the guest room (which you had recently started thinking off as Red's room) and found the bed and pillows dutifully stripped of their covers, the spread and pillow cases folded into a neat pile. 

You added them in with the rest of your laundry. 

On the dining table outside of your studio, you found a mug of coffee, freshly made. Steam was still rising from its surface. 

You looked back at Red, who was still studying the painting, though you were sure that he was aware of what you were doing. 

You loved coffee, remembered having told him that, but it was very rare that got to have it. You didn't trust most cafés, was sure that they didn't clean their machines enough. 

And while you had your own coffee machine, you rarely trusted yourself to make some, because that tiny voice inside your head, that bug in your brain, needed the coffee perfectly measured, the temperature just right. 

The coffee in the mug today was, of course, perfectly measured. When you wrapped your hands around the mug, it was just the right degree of hot. 

You thought that maybe this was his way of saying sorry. 

The laundry basket momentarily forgotten you walked over to Red, the mug still held in your hands. 

He was taking pictures of the painting from different angles, zooming in on the people's faces. 

You could feel your heart beating in your throat. 

"Thank you for the coffee," you said and you were glad that your voice didn’t shake.

"It's nothing,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. 

Red glanced at you out of the corner of his eye and you could see his shoulders relax slightly. "Sleep well?" 

You blinked. "I didn't have any visions if that's what you're asking." 

It takes you a second to decipher the low mechanical sound as Red chuckling. "It wasn't. I was just making conversation."

“Oh. I slept fine, I guess.” It took a second or two for you to add, “And you?” 

“Didn’t sleep much,” he admitted. “I was up all night trying to find out what the Joker was up to.” 

You felt a flash of guilt at this, thinking that maybe he blamed you, that he wouldn’t have to work so hard if you just agreed to go with him.

But Red stayed quiet, his attention still focused on the painting. You’d always admired the sense of focus he had, the way he seemed to be able to block out the universe until it was just him and whatever puzzle he was working on. 

You decided to take a sip of coffee, just to give you something to do and grimaced at the bitter taste of it.

He noticed, of course. “Something wrong?” Red asked.

“No, it’s fine. Just...a little bitter.”

You had no idea how he could look amused while wearing a mask, but somehow he pulled it off. 

“I’ll try to remember that next time,” he said.

The idea of there being a _next time_ made you smile and maybe Red felt noticed that, too, because he immediately changed the subject.

“These people, here, here, here.” He pointed to a man in a powder blue suit, his face torn to shreds by bits of glass, the woman at the bottom of the stairs, her neck broken and her face stretched into a grotesque grin and finally, a man being held hostage by a thug wearing a clown mask. 

“I know them. The guy with the glass in his face is one of the Black Mask’s lieutenants. He’s been making a grab for Black Mask’s position ever since he left the picture. The woman’s one of Penguin’s. I’ve seen her several times in the Iceberg Lounge. The man...he works at Arkham. I don’t know what he’s doing here. Kinda looks like something outside of his pay grade.”

He paused. “If these people die, there’ll be a massive power vacuum in the underworld. Lots of people making a grab for power. Lots of innocent people could get hurt.”

Red turned to you then. “In your dream, did you hear anyone other than the Joker talking? People talking about I don’t know, plans, places...anything?”

You shook your head. “Mostly just screaming and someone laughing.”

For a long moment, Red was so quiet that you could hear the creak of leather gloves as he curled his hands into fists.

“Man, times like these, I wish I still had access to the Batcomputer,” Red muttered. 

Sometimes, you felt like you’d known him your whole life, so familiar with the curve of his helmet and the proud lilt of his shoulders that you could draw them from memory. The strange mechanical tinge of his voice when he spoke to you, sometimes about his time on the streets when he was a boy, sometimes about his day, what he did with his time as the Red Hood. 

“Batcomputer?” you said quietly. “You know Batman?”

And then sometimes, he’d say something like _Batcomputer_ and it suddenly felt like you didn’t know him at all. 

“I thought I did,” he said shortly. “Anyway. I still have some sources, even without the Batcomputer. I’ll put out some feelers, see what the Joker’s up to.”

“Okay.” It was on the tip of your tongue. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t go with you. I’m sorry I’m causing you so much trouble.

But the words somehow got lost and new ones tumbled out.

“You’ll be careful, right, Red?” 

Because you are thinking about bombs and Joker venom and grins stretched so wide that it hurt to see. You were thinking about all the times Red had told you about being beaten to death with a crowbar, and how sometimes, when the two of you were talking about the Joker, Red would shiver.

What had he said to you last night?

_The Joker scares me too. Always has._

You felt a sudden twinge of unease in the pit of your gut.

“You’ll be careful...right?” you repeated.

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye and for a minute, you could have sworn you saw a hint of blue inside his helmet.

“I’ll be fine. I’d be happier knowing that you won’t be accepting any gallery invitations to the Diamond Quarter anytime soon.”

You shrugged; you rejected gallery invitations all the time, only going to them when it was unavoidable. 

In fact, the general public seemed to love it when you didn’t appear at public events, with some people calling you a recluse and others speculating that you had a secret identity to protect. 

Yeah, right.

You couldn’t even help your friend solve a possible future massacre. Shame bubbled in your gut, searing hot and suddenly, you found it quite hard to look at Red again. 

“Hey,” Red said. “I need to hear it.” 

“Okay.” You still found it hard to look at him, choosing instead to talk to the wooden floor. Some of the paint you had used yesterday had dripped on the floor. You made a mental note to scrub it later. 

He examined you for a moment, then nodded. “Good. I’ll see you tonight.” 

“W-wait, you’re leaving?” you asked, finally looking at Red.

In daylight, it was easier to see just how beat up Red was; the jagged tears in his jacket, like some huge cat had scratched him, the deep gouges in his helmet. 

Ever since that day in the bank, it had been easy to see Red as powerful, invincible even. 

But--

_The Joker scares me, too. Always has._

It was hard not to admire that kind of bravery, hard not to wish that you had that sort of courage.

But it was hard, too, to shake the idea that maybe this was what was going to get him killed.

Unlike Red, you needed something a little more than a simple verbal reassurance.

"Red?" 

This time, he did not reply, simply stared at you, waiting.

"Can I see your face?" 

As soon as you said it, you wanted to smack your hands over your mouth, somehow, take the words back, swallow them, forget that they ever tumbled from your lips.

But you hadn't been able to get the idea out of your head. You'd known Red for...what? A year? A year and a half? 

He knew you enough to accept all your little quirks, those hints that you weren't quite _right_ that would have made most people wince and take half a step back. 

You didn't know anything about him.

Not his face, not his name, not even what he _sounded_ like.

You thought that maybe it was your own of asking for something to hold on to. 

Red didn't say anything for a long, long time, simply stared at you through his helmet. The steady rise and fall of his chest a stark contrast to the hammering of your heart, so loud that you could hear its beating in your ears. 

You could see particles of dust in the sunlight, suppressed a shiver at the sight of them. 

A flush of heat crept up your neck when you realized that Red still hadn't said anything.

"It's okay," you muttered, turning away. "Forget I said anything." 

Before you could leave, the hiss of escaping air filled the room as Red disengaged the locking mechanisms of his helmet. 

You whipped around, heart beating in your throat, and suddenly laundry and dust and droplets of paint on the floor was the last thing on your mind.

"Red?" Your lips felt frozen. 

"I'm trusting you with this," he said as he reached up--gloved fingers leaving smear marks on his helmet--and pulled off the red helmet off his head.

It took you a moment to make sense of his features; the gesture of trust shocking you just as much as seeing his actual face. 

He was handsome, though perhaps not in the way most of your models were; black hair marred by a streak of white just above his forehead. Glacial blue eyes that maybe should have made you think of something poetic, like the sky on a summer's day or the ocean, but really, all they reminded you of was broken bits of glass.

A nose that looked like it had been broken and reset more than once, a mouth that was set into a scowl.

He looked handsome, but he also looked hard, and somehow you thought that that fit him better than if he looked like someone who walked out of a magazine.

Your fingers itched to paint him, draw the fine lines around his mouth, the dark circles around his eyes, features that normally didn't beautify a person but served to ground Red, make him _real_.

The corners of his lips twitched in an almost-smile.

"Say something." 

His voice, too, was hoarse, as if he spent the night yelling. 

You weren't sure when exactly you had removed your gloves but your fingers itched to touch him, read his face like a blind man reads Braille.

Your fingers stopped just short of touching his skin, the voice in your head screaming at you, _What are you doing?_ and _germs_ and contamination and _sickness_. 

It was Red who took the final step, leaning gently into your touch, skin just skimming your fingertips. You could have pulled away any time you wanted to.

You didn't want to.

"Red, you're perfect," you sighed. 

His Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. 

"Jason."

"What?"

"Jason. My name is Jason Todd."

"Oh."

The name fits him too.

You weren't sure who moved first, maybe he did or you did or maybe it really didn't matter, because in the moment you were pulled tight against him, his lips searing hot against yours. 

And maybe you should have pushed him away because the bug in the back of your head was screaming at you. 

How _disgusting_.

How _unsanitary_.

But something else made you reach up and grasp the edges of his jacket--one hand still ungloved--to pull him closer; your heart seizing at the realization that you could _feel_ his heat through his body armor. 

This was the closest you've been to another human being in years. 

He tasted like smoke and coffee and menthol. 

He also tasted a little bit like living. 

It was you who pulled away first, your head filled with black thoughts of contamination and communicative diseases. But you forced your hands to keep still on his jacket.

Neither of you was breathing steadily.

Red-- _Jason_ \--smiled a half-smile, lips tilting up briefly. "Been wanting to do that for a long time."

Gently, he pulled your hands away from him and you realized that you were shaking. 

"You all right?" 

All right wasn't the word you'd use. 

You felt _electric_ , energized, really, truly _alive._

You couldn't tell him that, though.

Instead, you smiled, as sweet as you could manage. 

"Yeah, I'm all right."

"Good." Jason hesitated, his gaze darting to the window. "I really do have to go. I need to run these pictures through the police database. Check for any link between the people there." 

For a moment, you stared at him, confused. 

Then you remembered: the painting, _those people._

“Okay,” you said, trying not to let your disappointment show. 

Maybe Red noticed it still because he put his hand on your shoulder--as much contact that you could stand right now--and said, “I’ll come back tonight.” 

You smiled at him, anticipating, for the first time, leaving your window open tonight. 

“I’ll be waiting.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it’s possible to gift individual chapters, I’d give this one to Goodfellow and Winterbugsy, both of whom have made awesome Red Hood art, which you can check out [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/BXWV59jl_f0/) and [here](bugsyart.tumblr.com/post/163224655899/a-little-scene-i-drew-inspired-by). 
> 
> They’ve also expressed an interest in seeing the reader and Jason’s first meeting, which was referenced in the past two chapters.
> 
> So, this one’s for you awesome gals! I hope you like it!
> 
> This was originally supposed to be for the Lunaescence Last to First Challenge, with the prompt reminisce. But I missed that it had 1000 word limit, and since this chapter was close to 4k...yeah. 
> 
> The offer I made on my Tumblr/Luna blog still stands, so if anyone wants me to write a drabble for them, I'm game. 
> 
> IT’S BEEN 24 HOURS SINCE I LAST SLEPT AND 12 SINCE I LAST ATE BUT YEAH LET’S FINISH THIS.
> 
> Oh yeah, this takes place several months after chapter two. But somehow, I hoped I conveyed that in writing.

Dirt. You were covered in dirt, and somehow, it felt worse than dying. 

When you moved, you could feel the individual grains, caked into your skin, your hair.

You could hear the sound of engines, and the murmur of conversation, but all you could see was darkness. 

“That sick bastard...”

“We’ve already sent up the signal...”

It took you several tries before you could speak. 

“H-hello?”

You imagined the dirt sinking into you, past the skin the and muscle, and invading your blood vessels. You imagined that you would stay like this forever, disgusting and dirty and infected. 

The conversation went on, seemingly unaffected.

“Others are probably trapped underneath the rubble...” 

No one heard you.

You reached out blindly with one hand, feeling along the walls. 

Solid concrete and dust and dirt in front of you. 

A metal bar to your left. It smelled of rust. You thought of tetanus. 

Again, concrete to your right.

When you kicked your feet out, you felt more dirt rain onto your bare legs.

Darkness. Dirt. 

Then, suddenly, inexplicably you were screaming, bare fists pounding against the concrete wall, feet kicking out in the darkness. Your heart was beating in your chest, hard enough to hurt, hard enough that you thought that it was going to break free and leave your blood splattered on the walls. 

Was that all they were going to find of you? 

“Oh God, oh God, please! Is anyone there? Can anyone hear me? I’m here! Someone get me out, someone get me out _please_! _Please_! Oh God!”

The skin of your balled fists split against the concrete, spilling hot blood on your wrists, your face. 

You tasted rust and for one wild, moment, you thought of the metal bar and that somehow the metal flakes had gotten in your mouth. Was this how you died? Poisoned, your jaw locked into a wide-grin and your muscles seized up from tetanus?

“Someone help me, please!” Your fists beat uselessly against the concrete. 

You could hear the roar of engines and in the darkness, it was hard to tell if it was the sound of drills starting up or the roar of cars as they drove away.

It smelled like blood in here. It smelled like death. It smelled like you were already dead. 

It hit you then: if they didn’t find you, this place will be your grave. 

Or maybe they’ll find you too late, and all that’ll greet them will be your corpse, caked in dirt, worms crawling in your mouth and eyes, like all the dead things.

Once again, you thought of the dust around you, in your skin. 

Hell, for all you knew, you were buried underneath six feet of dirt and concrete and steel beams. A blackness that had nothing to do with your tomb bloomed behind your eyes, and your fingers itched to clean yourself, rub your skin until it was clean again.

You screamed a high, wordless scream, animalistic in its terror. The force with which you hit the wall doubled, your muscles burning with the effort.

Your voice broke then, unable to keep up with the strain you put on your vocal cords and soon, there was only the sound of your harsh coughs, the feeble slap of flesh against concrete.

You could no longer hear the people outside.

 _They’ve left you_ , something said inside you. _You’re going to die down here._

You tried to brush away the dirt on your arms but only succeeded in smearing it with blood.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. You couldn’t even get yourself clean.

“Someone,” you whispered. “Someone please help me.”

But no one answered. 

****

*********

“Orient, come in. I’ve got your signal, are you all right?”

You woke slowly; it was hard to adjust when it was so dark that it didn’t matter whether your eyes were open or close. 

And it was sweet, those few seconds before truly waking before you remembered where you were. It was sweet, and all you wanted was to stay down, where the fear couldn’t reach you.

“Orient, come in. I’ve got your signal, come in.”

For the first time, the darkness wasn’t so solid. For the first time, you could actually see something; a soft red light was emanating from a gadget that had been sewed into your shoe, beeping softly. 

Light, then darkness, then light again. 

It would have been funny if it wasn’t so terrifying. 

Your tomb was just about big enough that you could crouch, but never fully stand, its length just small enough that you had to curl on your side to avoid banging your feet against the jagged rocks.

Blood was splattered on the wall on your right side. 

“Orient, come in. I’ve got your signal–fuck, come on, babe, just let me know you’re alive.”

For a moment, you could hardly breathe. 

_Jason._

Tears threatened to choke you. 

Jason had come for you like he always said he would. 

The tracker he had insisted on putting on the sole of every shoe you own.

“ _Just in case_.” You had remembered being terrified at those words, had begged him to remove them because _just in case_ were such vast terrifying words.

 _Just in case_ of a fire.

 _Just in case_ of a shootout.

 _Just in case_ of a bombing and the building caves around you, trapping you underneath tons of rubble. 

It was one of the rare occasions where Jason didn’t cave in to your requests, and you found yourself silently thanking him. 

But the voice...his voice. That couldn’t have come from the tracker, which was the size of the fingernail on your little finger. 

Suddenly, you remembered the burner phone in your pocket, Jason’s insistence that you keep in on you at all times.

Leaning down, your tight quarters just barely wide enough to allow you to curl on your side, you reached for your burner phone with frozen fingers.

“Jason? Jason, is that you?” Your voice came out in a croak and even those simple words sent fire down your throat and started a coughing fit. Your throat felt raw and torn and when you licked your lips, you felt deep cracks.

How long had you been here?

“Babe–ah, Orient? Thank God. Look I’ve tracked down the signal from your tracker, I’m on my way.”

You could hear the roar of his motorcycle engine in the background, a man’s deep voice whose words you couldn’t quite make out.

If anything, it made you feel more alone. It made you think of the engines you had heard and the people who didn’t hear you. 

It made you think that Jason was never going to find you.

“H-hey, Red?” you whispered, your voice so low that it was a wonder he heard it.

“Yeah?”

You closed your eyes, trying to focus on his voice. But every time you moved, you could feel the individual grains of dirt on your skin, and it was hard to breathe again.

Your fingers scratched idly at some spot on your arm, felt your breath catch at the feeling of dirt on your forearm. 

“Don’t...don’t hang up.”

It felt ridiculous, pathetic, needy to ache for his voice so badly. But here, in the darkness, it was the only thing that kept the whispering away, the soft, dark murmurs at the back of your head. The ones that told you how _dirty_ you were, how _contaminated_ , how Jason wouldn’t want even want to see you. 

“Please?”

You have never felt so small. 

There was a brief silence over the phone and you could hear the wind whistling across the tracker’s receiver.

“Never crossed my mind,” Jason said easily, and you nearly cried at the idea of not being alone in the darkness. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice nearly breaking at the words.

The short silence that followed was nearly enough to make the voices start up again, to make you notice all the dirt around you and the stains on your clothes.

But only just, because Jason was talking again.

“Can you tell me where you are, right now? What do your surroundings look like?”

You looked around the emptiness of your cage, just barely big enough for a person.

“I’m in a...I’m in...” You felt your voice crack. _Coffin_. You were in a coffin, your only companion the dirt and the shadows.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes; your throat burned worse than ever.

“Easy there, Orient,” Jason said, his voice calm, composed, the exact opposite of what you felt right now. “Tell me what you see. Just tell me what you see. The more I know, the quicker I’ll get you out of there.”

Your breath came out in explosive bursts; you were pretty sure that Jason could hear it over the phone. But hearing his strong, sure voice over the phone eased the tight band in your chest.

If Jason, who panicked every time you cried, was this calm, then surely things could not be that bad, right?

You pushed back the blackness in the back of your mind and hunched over the screen, its tiny glow the only thing that was keeping the shadows away.

You could feel grains of dirt scraping against the skin of your arm.

“I’m...trapped. The building I was in...it collapsed, I think.”

“R.H. Kane building,” Jason supplied. “We were working on a case there, remember? Someone had planted a bomb there, we’re thinking it’s Wesker.” 

No, you didn’t. You didn’t remember who Wesker was, or the case or even the bomb that presumably went off and reduced the building to rubble.

“Can you smell smoke? Gasoline?”

“N-no? Am I supposed to?” you asked. What was Jason going to have you do if you did? Construct some sort of drill that would help you get out of here? 

“Good.” You could hear the relief in his voice. “You’re not in any immediate danger then.”

You wanted to argue with that, wanted to tell him about the blood caked on your fists and the dirt that seemed to sink into your skin. But you didn’t want him to think of you as a coward.

Instead, you curled around the phone, your eyes fixed on the screen. You tried to think of Jason, probably on his motorcycle right now, racing past the shops and skyscrapers that made up Gotham City. 

You wondered which streets he would take, the fastest? The safest?

And suddenly, you were thinking of open air and wide skies. Was it raining, the way it often did in Gotham? Or was the sun shining bright; those few, precious days where everything was warm and dry and you didn't have to worry about pneumonia or colds?

In the darkness of this place, you had no idea. 

You felt tears pricking the corner of your eyes, struggled to keep your breathing steady. The burning in your throat did not help. 

You could hear the low purr of Jason's motorcycle, so you knew that he hadn't hung up, but the knowledge didn't make you feel any less lonely. 

"Hey."

"Hey." Your voice was hoarse, rough like you had gargled glass.

"Remember when you gave me the lead to Nigma's base?" 

Despite the feeling of bugs crawling underneath your skin, the memory made you smile. 

Edward G. Nigma was one of the permanent fixtures of Gotham, much like Wayne Enterprises and the Mochant River. No matter what Jason or Robin or Batman did, the man always sprung back up like a weed, always with some mad puzzle that he was sure will stump Gotham's vigilantes.

His latest scheme involved several hostages, hidden in different buildings in Gotham City. He had, by way of hijacking the morning news, given Batman the first of what would be a series of clues that led to his victims. 

Nigma had even gone as far as to inviting the citizens of Gotham to join in on the fun, saying that he doubted that a regular person could even comprehend the cipher he had flashed on the screen, let alone solve it.

If you were honest, Nigma had been right, you _couldn't_ make heads or tails of the puzzle that Nigma flashed, a sort of crossword puzzle involving various symbols, most of which the villain himself had created. 

What you could do, however, was assist a certain hooded vigilante in finding the victims.

Nine hostages, two of them children. 

Nine paintings that you had created over the course of several hours. 

Your wrists had ached and you were dehydrated by the end of it, but you figured that it was worth it, to hear the Riddler scream profanities at the Red Hood ever Gotham's city–wide speakers.

The memory made you smile.

"You took me to dinner, after," you said, softly. It was rare that the two of you went out together, what with Jason's own reclusiveness and your own inability to trust anything outside of your apartment.

But Jason had assured you of the restaurant's cleanliness, had even gone so far as to offer you a behind-the-scenes look at the place's kitchens.

"Yeah, remember when you insisted on having the wine classes cleaned and recleaned?"

"I don't think they'll be letting us back in after that," you whispered.

From the phone, you could hear Jason's breathy laugh, somewhat muffled because of the wind. 

"I'm just glad the waiter didn't spit in our food."

The smile slid off your face at the thought. 

"Do you think the waiter did that?" you asked, and there it was again, the fear, crawling up your spine in thin tendrils. The familiar clench of your gut as you thought of being contaminated, by _someone's spit_ , no less.

Your stomach turned, and you had to fight the urge to vomit.

"No." As always, Jason's voice was calm, easy.

"How do you know that?" you asked.

"Cause I paid him like, a hundred bucks to treat the girl with OCD nicely." 

"Oh." It made you sad to think that Jason had to go to such lengths for you.

"He refused and asked for a picture and an autograph instead. Apparently, he was a fan."

"Now you're just lying," you accused.

"Nope." And his lips made a popping sound. "He had a picture of you on his phone and everything. Should I be jealous?" 

You giggled, actually _giggled_ , a high, girlish sound that didn't belong in this place.

You closed your eyes.

Jason _will_ find you. 

"Where are you now?" you asked. When you licked your lips, felt the deep cracks in them and dry, flaky skin. 

How long has it been since you drank something? 

Silence.

Then, "About an hour away." 

An hour! You felt heat eating away at your gut at the very _idea_ of being stuck in here for an hour.

"Oh."

"I'm going as fast as I can, I'm at the Yards right now. It'll only be an hour. Don't worry, I'll talk to you the entire time."

Tricorner Yards! That was as far away from Kane building as one could get, to say nothing of the traffic. 

To get to you in an hour, Jason would be breaking some serious speed limits. 

Or the rules of physics.

"Jay?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Are you wearing a helmet?" It was stupid, of course. A stupid question. But what if, in his haste to come to you, he'd go too fast, cut one corner too many and ride right into an oncoming car?

As strong as Jason was, you doubted that he would fare well against two tons of steel.

His laugh did nothing to relax you.

"I wouldn't worry about me. I'll be fine. Worry about yourself. Keep your breathing steady."

Far from easing your fears, however, it only brought up a new concern.

"Jason, will I run out of air in this place?" you asked, and even as you said it, you felt your chest grow tight. 

Breathing became difficult.

"Jay? Am I–is there enough oxygen here? Am I going to die?" your voice wavered, broke. The tears you were trying so hard to keep from spilling flooded your eyes, streaking your dirty cheeks.

"Jason?" you asked again when he didn't answer. Your chest was heaving, every breath an uphill task. 

Your chest heaved, every breath a laborious task as you struggled for air.

When he didn't answer, that was when you broke down, crying so hard you could barely breathe. Snot running down your nose, sending your mind screaming with disgust. 

Your hands patted your jeans' many pockets, desperate for something to wipe your face with, something that wasn't covered in dirt or smeared with your own blood. 

"Shit, are you crying?" Jason asked and for the first time, you heard the calm in his voice break. "Fuck, don't–don't cry. I was just thinking, all right? We've been talking for several minutes, and your breathing pattern didn't change much, except when you were upset. Air is probably seeping into wherever you are."

When you didn't answer, your boyfriend added, "Hey, just don't cry, okay?"

Your laughter was thick with tears. "You never really reacted well whenever I cried."

The relief in his voice was a near-tangible thing. "Can you blame me? I'd take several armed thugs over that."

Despite his joking tone, there was a certain truth in Jason's voice, a strain in his words that wasn't there before you had started crying.

For some reason, you decided to pick up the thread of your previous conversation. Your voice still shook as you spoke, the panic and the darkness never too far away. 

"You made me cry the first time we met, remember?"

Jason snorted. "Don't remind me."

"You had a big gun to my face."

"It's called a _shotgun_ , but yeah, I did."

You could almost picture him smiling, maybe a little annoyed that, despite being with him for so long, you still haven't shown much interest in guns. 

He had taken you to a firing range once, to teach you how to shoot, but you had missed nearly every shot you took.

"Well, it looked huge from my point of view."

"It was _supposed_ to," Jason grunted. "I was planning to scare you into talking." 

Well, he had succeeded in that, at least. 

Several months after you had released a series of paintings that depicted Poison Ivy's attack on GCPD. Plants dominated the piece, with great thick vine bursting through solid concrete to strangle unarmed police officers.

Crushed cars, some of them still containing civilians, lay scattered in the background. 

One of the more controversial figures in the painting was a baby, his head cut and bleeding, little mouth open wide in terror as his own mother ran from the car. Its hood was wrapped in vines, the glass windows seeming to crack under the pressure.

And at the center of the painting was Poison Ivy, her face as a mask of queenly composure, looking down at everyone from atop a throne of vines. 

In the painting, she had looked powerful, untouchable. 

To say that the piece disturbed people was an understatement. 

And then it had happened, almost two weeks after you had released the painting.

That was when Jason had decided to pay you a visit.

He had thought that you were in league with Poison Ivy, at the very least, a death worshiper who insisted on memorializing a villain's acts.

"You started interrogating me. You kept asking if I worked for Poison Ivy. Or Penguin. Or the Joker," you remembered. 

But instead of finding a cult member or even Ivy's fangirl, he had found an almost freakishly clean apartment. He had found you.

And when you woke up in the darkness, with the barrel of a gun leveled at your face, the first thing you said was–

" 'Your boots are on my sheets', yeah I remember," Jason mused. "I thought for sure you were shitting me. Then you started crying."

Even now, you had wondered whether you had cried because of the thought of impending death or because of the idea of someone’s shoes, tracked with mud and germs and god knows what else, on the sheets that you _slept_ in. 

Either way, the effect had been the same. You had stared at Jason for several seconds, your eyes burning, determined not to cry in front of this stranger. Determined not to break down.

The blackness won, however, and, skin burning with shame, you had cried, telling him to get off your sheets and please, please leave you alone and how did he get into the apartment? Was he sick? Did he infect you?

You expected him to shoot you, to squeeze the trigger and leave your brains spattered across your white pillow.

You pictured the police coming into your apartment and shaking their heads over your body.

 _She left such a_ mess _when she died..._

You did not expect, however, for Jason to drop his gun and start cursing.

“Shit, ah. Don’t cry. Your heart rate’s through the roof. Look, this is what happens when you work for bad guys, all right?”

You felt gloved hands on your bare skin and your mind raced with thoughts of serial killers, how the professional ones would always wear gloves. You imagined your blood all over the apartment, the clean white tiles spattered in red.

If anything, you had cried harder.

“Shit. You’re not a henchman, are you? None of them ever cried. Ah. I’ll buy you new sheets?” 

“You yelled at me to get out,” Jason remembered. “I never got out of a room fast enough.”

The memory made you smile, despite the burning in your throat. You would have given anything to be back in your own room right now, dirty sheets and all.

Dust fell onto your hair and whatever you had been about to say dissolved into a scream. You tried to jump up into a sitting position, only for your head to collide painfully with the concrete above you. 

“ _Fuck_!” you yelled and you were crying again.

Goddammit. 

_Goddammit._

Why did you have to cry all the time? 

Why did you have to be so useless? 

Couldn’t you be brave like Jason was? Couldn’t you be calm and talk to him like a normal person? 

You don’t think you’ve ever hated yourself the way you did now, and it hurt, worse than the cuts on your hands, worse than cracks on your lips from dehydration. It even hurt more than the slow, seductive creep of your own thoughts, telling you how _dirty_ you were, how much you needed to clean.

Dust fell again, and maybe, just maybe, you could convince yourself that the tears were because it had gotten into your eyes.

“Hey, are you okay? Talk to me,” Jason said and for the first time, you heard a note of panic in his voice. 

You reached for the phone, not wanting to be more of a burden than you already were. 

“I’m–” 

The ground underneath you shook, making the phone rattle.

“Hey, Orient, answer me.”

“Jason, I–”

The ground shook again, hard enough that you could feel the giant slabs of concrete vibrating around you. 

Terror trilled in your heart, beating a mad tempo and one word flooded your mind, crowding out all conscious thought.

“EARTHQUAKE!” you shrieked. 

The ground shook and shook, dust and debris raining down on you and all you could hear was the grating sound of stone and stone and your own heartbeat in your ears.

This was how you died.

You shut your eyes, and even at the end, all you could think about was how you could never get clean, how _dirty_ your own corpse was going to be.

With your back pressed against the wall, you could feel the shift of stone and metal. The great slab of concrete above you moved and dust rained all around you. Your thoughts scattered, so terrified that you were beginning to feel numb. Surely, a human being couldn’t handle being this scared, surely their heart will give out long before this. You thought that you will die before those rocks ever came down on you. But the rocks were moving, shifting. 

Your fevered brain might have imagined it, because you felt a cool breeze. 

Then suddenly, _sunlight._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm back! After...radio silence. Sorry about that. Been a rough year for me. Anyway, here's the end of the story! Thank you, thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this story, to everyone who kudosed and commented and supported this little fic of mine. I can't tell you how grateful I am to you lovely readers!
> 
> I know that the story originally said it would have three chapters, but after some thought and a bit of consultation, I thought that it would be better to cut this chapter in half, so I can focus on the more emotional scene that's coming up.
> 
> Once again, thank you Mister Pseudonymous for her help and editing in this chapter, and as always, acting as the ever-patient, ever rational sounding board for my stories. It's a wonder she hasn't sent me a bomb or something, what with all the pestering I do. And of course, to the lovely Winterbugsy for her supportive comments. I am so grateful to both of you. 
> 
> On a side note, and shameless plugging lol, after this story, I'll be starting a new Jason/Reader fic called "The Pizza Delivery Girl’s Survival Guide to Gotham City" set in the Arkham Universe, and I find myself in need of a beta, if any of you have any beta experience or know someone who has beta experience in that universe, and are willing to beta my tripe, please contact me at thegirlwiththebambooblade.tumblr.com

Sunlight speared your eyes, and you found yourself blinking back tears.

Everything seemed too bright, the wind too cool. You sucked in a deep breath, relief so intense it almost hurt.

Bright lights all around you, voices ringing, mingling with each other when previously all you had heard was silence.

Police cars surrounded the area, a bright yellow tape surrounding the area that had once been Kane building. 

What you had thought of as sunlight were nothing harsh, white floodlights that lit the scene.

For some reason, the thought hurt.

You felt light, light enough to float away, if not for the heavy hands on your shoulders.

"Are you all right?" a deep voice asked.

_That's right, your rescuer. Whoever he was._

You found yourself staring up at Gotham's dark knight himself.

"Batman," you whispered. You couldn't help the single step back you took in the sight of him, and really, who could blame you? Batman towered over you at over six feet tall, his cape and armor so dark that it seemed to suck in the light around him.

And Red— _Jason_ —had warned you numerous times to stay away from the vigilante, though he never said why.

"Did you hear anyone else down there?" Batman asked. 

"No." Your eyes were fixed on the wreckage that had once been R.H. Kane building.

It had been a behemoth of a skyscraper, built to honor one of the founders of Gotham City. Kane building had been the site of numerous galas, where only Gotham's richest and finest where invited.

There had also been rumors about it being the site of a massive drug operation.

Now, all that was left of the proud building was twisted bars of steel and chunks of broken concrete jutting from the ground like tombstones.

You had no doubt that Gotham City would rebuild, perhaps with another donation from Wayne corporation to speed up the process.

Still, the sight of the demolished building made you feel sad.

"Was there anyone else down there?" Batman repeated. "Did you hear anything?"

He turned away from you, staring at the wreckage.

If it hadn't been for Jason, you would have thought him upset, but you knew that he was using whatever technology was in his cowl to scan for heat signatures in the building.

You swallowed, your throat feeling dry.

"No. I didn't hear anything," you said.

"Then you're the last one out," he decided. "Did you hear anything, see anyone suspicious before the building exploded?"

"I—" The last thing you heard before R.H. Kane imploded around you was Jason's voice in your ear, asking you the same thing.

Subconsciously, you touched your left ear. The communicator was still there, though it was obviously broken.

Batman's eyes followed the motion, but he didn't say anything.

You had the uncomfortable feeling that Batman was analyzing you.

"I didn't hear anything. I'm sorry."

That was when you heard a sound that sent chills down your spine.

"Orient? Orient, are you okay? Damn it, Orient, answer me!"

The burner phone that you had dropped when Batman dug you from underneath the debris was still on, and you could hear Jason's frantic voice calling out for you.

Batman's eyes slid over to the hole he had just pulled you out of.

"Concerned friend?" he asked.

You swallowed, hearing Jason's voice in your head.

_Stay away from Batman._

You wondered what his history was with the caped vigilante and whether Batman recognized his voice.

"Y-yes." Your voice sounded like you'd been gargling broken glass.

"I'll get it. You need to sit down." He motioned for one of the medics near the ambulances.

"No!" The answer burst out of you before you could stop yourself.

_Stay away from Batman._

Batman didn't say anything, simply stared at you.

Something in your stomach clenched.

Maybe it was the costume, or his scowl, or the way he towered over you, but there was something deeply unsettling about Batman. Something that never came up in the blogs and newspaper articles about him.

There was a weight to him, a purpose. And telling him _no_ , denying him something...you had a feeling that that wasn't something that happened often.

"I-I'll get it," you stammered. "I'm sure you have other people to rescue."

"You're the last one out."

"Orient? Orient! Answer me!"

The panic in Jason's voice went straight to your gut, and you found yourself scrambling back into the dark hole that you had been trapped in for so long, fingers desperately reaching out for the burner phone, half-buried in dirt and debris.

Your mind screamed at the feeling of dirt grains underneath your fingers but Jason's voice, barely discernible through the damaged speaker, felt clean, burning bright against the shadows in your mind.

"I'm here." Your voice sounded as raw as you felt. "I..."

You swallowed, aware of Batman's eyes boring into your back.

Though he never said anything, you had the distinct sensation that everything you said, everything you did, was being processed and analyzed. Put into a box for later inspection.

"Batman's here. He pulled me out."

The one person he had told you to avoid.

Silence.

You could feel your heartbeat in your fingertips.

"Red?" Your heart beating so hard in your throat that you found it hard to speak.

"Don't talk to him, I'm on my way," Jason said tightly, the words barely making it past clenched teeth. There was no mistaking the roar of his motorcycle as he pushed it harder, faster, in order to get to you.

You had the sudden, vivid image of Jason's motorcycle going wild underneath him, unable to gain traction on the streets, always so slippery from the near-constant rain that afflicted Gotham. Jason's helmet hitting the concrete and splitting open, blood and brains scattered across the streets.

People barely stopping, barely caring, too busy with their own lives to care about the man dying on the streets.

Gotham's near-constant rain washing the road clean again.

It was hardest thing you've ever done, whispering. " _Be careful_ ,"when every inch of you was screaming.

Then, after a moment, you added, "Please."

"Red Hood." It was Batman's voice and it sent a shiver down your spine.

He was Gotham's protector, one of the few people who were willing to fight the insanity that infected the city night after night after night, just citizens like you could be safe.

Even someone as reclusive as you would hear the rumors about him, all the people he'd saved, the criminals he put in Blackgate or Arkham Asylum.

He was a hero.

He was a protector.

He scared the hell out of you.

For a few moments, the only thing that you could hear was the roar of Jason's motorcycle.

Then—

"Yeah?"

A muscle in Batman's cheek twitched.

"Do you know anything about who set off this bomb?"

"She safe?"

Batman scowled at the phone, obviously annoyed at Jason's deflection.

"Yes. Do you know anything about who set off this bomb?"

You could just picture Jason grinning to himself as he answered, "No."

The phone went dead. 

The short exhale of air was the only indication at the vigilante's annoyance.

When he turned to you, you felt your heart stutter.

Was he going to interrogate you?

You've heard of how Batman interrogated thugs: being hung upside down from the rafters, head nearly getting crushed with the Batmobile's tire, getting punched so hard they lost a tooth.

Though you were no thug, the stories were enough to light your imagination on fire.

So when the vigilante next spoke, his voice was enough to make you flinch. 

"He called you Orient."

Your throat felt too raw to permit speaking, so you simply nodded.

_To direct or position toward a particular object, to determine one's position._

Jason had been wearing a shit-eating grin when he came up with that one.

You had the sudden. searing ache for home and surprisingly, it wasn't your apartment that you thought of. 

You didn't think of the clean white tiles, the crisp sheets, or even the sound of the news whenever Jason stayed the night, turned down low so it wouldn't wake you.

You thought of one of Jason's many safe houses, startlingly clean in their own right.

You ached for the quiet nights in the shelter, when you had been too far away from East End and the two of you too exhausted to justify a trip back.

There had been something oddly comforting about those times; the safe houses quiet except for the odd scratch of metal on metal as Jason cleaned his guns, you puttering about, cleaning whatever needed cleaning.

Your chest felt tight, hot and suddenly you could feel every grain of dirt that clung to your skin, the dried blood that caked your hands.

You have never felt so dirty in your life.

The cowled vigilante took a step forward you, and he loomed, the blackness of his outfit seeming to suck in the light around it. 

"You're his informant, aren't you?"

Your tongue was a heavy thing inside your mouth, thick and useless. 

There were bugs underneath your skin and they squirmed every time you had to look at the dead white of his eyes.

You didn't trust yourself to speak.

After several seconds of silence, Batman spoke again.

He said only one sentence.

"I've seen your paintings."

Here, the vigilante paused, as if waiting for you to fill in the silence.

You didn't.

"They come out weeks or months before the event occurred. Poison Ivy's attack on the police station. The Joker releasing Joker gas in a soiree at the Diamond Quarter. Even Zsasz's escape from Arkham."

And it was nearly on the tip of your tongue to correct him, to tell him that you hadn't painted anything related to Viktor Zsasz, you could feel your lips forming the words.

Then stopped.

A flicker of emotion passed through Batman's face, something like triumph.

Guess beating criminals wasn't the only way the Bat got information.

Batman turned away to examine the rubble, some gadget already in his hand, mumbling to himself.

Or maybe he was talking to someone. Whatever he was doing, he didn't seem all that inclined to share.

Which was fine by you.

You found your fingers persistently scratching at the smears of dirt on your arm, trying, trying to get the dirt of.

Your head was buzzing with black thoughts.

And then the medic was there, soft voice, warm blanket, _let me have a look at you_ and you found yourself lashing out.

Skin-on-skin contact that could lead to _infection_ , _parasitesnever_ come just so he couldn't see you like this.

Someone wrapping the blanket tighter around you, whispered reassurances, "Hey, it's okay, it'll be okay."

You wanted to go _home_ , clean tiles and clean rooms and soft white blankets that had been washed twice over.

But it was hard to communicate that when it felt like your body was squeezing all the air out of your lungs. Frozen fingers brushed away the medic's hands on your shoulders. It wasn't her you wanted.

You allowed her to lead you to an ambulance, barely hearing the questions she asked you.

Someone else was in the ambulance with you, bits of concrete in his hair and dirt smeared on his face.

You wondered what you looked like to him, and decided that you would rather not know. 

Still, he smiled at you. Maybe a touch reluctant, but a smile was a smile.

"Heard you were the last one out of there," he said, his head tilting to indicate the ruined building.

"How long...?"

"Had we been trapped there? Don't know. Commissioner Gordon says that it explosion happened around midday." The man looked pointedly at the sky, so dark that you couldn't see a single star. "I'm just glad I was asleep for most of it. Woke up just in time to hear the Bat digging me out." His eyes tracked the Batmobile, and the Bat himself, not a few feet from it. 

_Lucky him._

The thought must have shown on your face, because the man said, "Sorry."

You blinked. "There's nothing to be sorry about."

"I'm sorry you'd been trapped in there for so long. I was only awake for a portion of it. But I'm telling you, I'll be having nightmares about it." 

He was right about the nightmares, at least.

You already had your fair share of nightmares; about insects crawling underneath your skin, burrowing deep into the muscle, the bone, where they'd settle and you'd be stuck with them forever. About dirt under your fingernails and how the infection would eat away at you until there were only the nubs of your fingers left. About raw festering wounds and peeling burns, and the raw, screaming ache of wrongness that accompanied them. 

You had lived with these things for years.

For all you knew, you could have slept through most of your time in that hole. 

And you had Jason with you.

As if hearing your thoughts, the phone in your hand buzzed again. 

Instead of a call, you were surprised to see a text.

Just two words.

_I'm here._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh. This took way too long. One more chapter to go. Hope you all enjoy!

_I'm here._

Never have two words thrilled you so much.

He had said the same thing, every time.

_I'm here._

The first time you had agreed to go with him on a mission, it had been to an auction, at a dingy place that stank of sweat and desperation. You had been trembling in your seat with just as much fear as disgust, as you watched young girls being herded onto the stage like cattle.

You had examined each person's face there, trying desperately to match someone, _something_ with your visions, and every time you heard a man cry out a number, the _scritch-scritch_ of the secretary's pen as she made a note on her clipboard, you felt like screaming. 

Here was a blackness even you couldn't scrub away.

Your phone had vibrated in your pocket, at the exact time an old man in the back row yelled a higher price for the girl on stage. A quick glance at the screen and you had seen the exact words you saw now.

  _I’m here._

 And against all common sense, you had turned to look. A stupid mistake, one that would have cost the two of you the mission.

 You had stared long enough to make out the outline of his figure, hidden in the shadows, the barest hint of the red of his helmet.

Jason had raised his hand, barely discernible in the darkness of his hiding spot, and _waved._

_I’m here._

Looking up at all the men and women who attended the art gallery, a glass of champagne growing warm in your gloved hand. There had been water marks on the surface of your glass, and the sight of that killed whatever appetite you had.

Watching the rich and the famous mill about, whispered conversations flowing over you like a current. Some of them had made cutting comments about your artwork, others had stopped by to discuss the possibility of buying several pieces.

Bruce Wayne stopping by to discuss your paintings, gazing at them with obvious fascination.

He had asked if you did _portraits,_ the last word uttered with a wink and a flirtatious smile.

You had sent him away with a shudder--his tie had been crooked and there was a lipstick stain on the collar of his shirt.

Just as soon as Bruce Wayne had left did Jason slid into the empty space, knuckles bruised and bleeding and careful not to touch you with them. Unlike the billionaire, Jason had taken care to straighten his tie before coming to you.

 “You were right,” he had said. “The guy back there said that they hid five canisters of Joker gas in here. Said that they’re rigged to blow 15 minutes from now.”

  _"What?_ ” Your voice had come out as a near-scream and several heads turned towards the two of you.

 He had touched you then, just the lightest brush of his skin against yours. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

 “We’ll find them before that happens. I...have a friend here.” Jason’s smile turned into a grimace at the word _friend_ , like it tasted foul in his mouth. “Between the two of us, we’ll find the canisters.”

 When that failed to reassure you, he simply said, “Don’t worry. I’m here. Do you honestly think I’d let anything happen to you?”

  _I’m here._

 Two words and the weight of an entire universe behind it.

 "Hey, are you all right?” A voice pulled you out of your thoughts, and you looked up to see a man looking at you with worry.

  _That’s right. The man, the ambulance._

 You looked down at your own hands. The dirt and mud and blood.

 For a second, you had been somewhere else, somewhere better.

 Your fingers trembled.

 “I—I’m not feeling so good,” you lied. “Could you get the medic for me please?”

 The man nodded and stood up to go find the medic; a flash of guilt went through you when you saw how unsteady his gait was, legs trembling like a newborn foal’s.

 Once again, you glanced at the message on your phone.

  _I’m here._

 You walked away from the ambulance, from Batman, and from the wreckage that nearly became your tomb without a second glance.

 *****

 You found Jason, as you expected, in one of the darkest alleys near the destroyed Kane building.

 “Ja—Red!” You shouldn’t have shouted, but you couldn’t help yourself.

 Underneath the helmet, you were sure that he was smiling.

 You were acutely aware of how _dirty_ you were, the dried blood that ran along your palms, the dirt underneath your fingernails.

 Though you couldn’t see it, you were sure that your face was streaked with dried tears.

 There was a moment or two of silence, and for a second you thought that maybe he didn’t want you anymore.

 When you looked down at the dirt underneath your fingernails, you thought of worms.

 Jason shifted uncomfortably, “You all right?”

 You blinked several times, feeling the burn of tears at the corner of your eyes.You wanted to scrub them away, you wanted to show Jason that you were tough, like he was. That you were the type of person who could walk away from a bombing and _laugh_ about it. That you weren’t bothered by the dirt and the blood and the darkness that seemed to swallow you whole.

 But you weren’t.

 You couldn’t even tell him yes.

 You simply shook your head, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak.

 “Jason, I want to go home. Please,” you said.

 Home meant safety. Home meant hot water and sanitizers and something to scrub away the dirt and make yourself _forget_.

 If he was bothered by you using his real name in the field, Jason didn’t show it.

 Instead, he nodded and tossed you something, its cheerful blue-and-white color almost grotesquely out of place amongst the shadows.

 You caught it, just barely, and you shuddered at the way your fingers left dirt streaks across its shiny surface. It was a small box of antiseptic wipes. You felt tears prick the corner of your eyes. It was stupid, to feel so grateful over such a small thing, but right then, the box meant more to you than a blanket or a hug or even the presence of a medical professional.

 Your throat felt so tight that you could barely get out the words to thank Jason, before ripping open the box and scouring the length of your arms with the wipes. The antiseptic stung the many little cuts that littered your arms, but few things had ever felt so good as the feeling of being clean again, of being presentable.

 Under the layers of dirt and blood, bruises stood out against your skin, some a sickly yellow and others a darker shade of purple. Your stomach tightened at the way they couldn’t be wiped away and you found yourself scrubbing again and again and again.

 They wouldn’t come off. In the back of your mind, you knew that they weren’t supposed to come off, but you could feel an itch in your brain. A part of you wondered if the _infection_ and _disease_ has spread under your skin and you found yourself wanting to hook your fingers and dig under your skin until all dirt and disease was gone.

 Strong fingers wrapped around your hands and the sensation jolted you enough to look up. Despite his helmet, you could tell that Jason was frowning.

 “Easy, Orient,” he said. “We’ll get you clean, don’t worry.”

 When you looked down at your arms, blood welled from new cuts.

 A shadow fell over you, and Jason’s grip around your hand tightened and you found yourself being pulled behind you.

 His other hand brushed the gun at his side, though the fact that he hadn’t drawn it yet surprised you.

 “Evening, B,” he said easily, though the stiffness of his back belied his words.

 “Red Hood.”

 There was no mistaking that voice and there was definitely no mistaking the shadow that the man cast.

 Jason gently nudged you further behind him, enough to keep Batman out of sight. And hopefully, to keep _you_ out of _his_ sight.

 “She’s your informant.” The way he spoke it, with absolute certainty, made you shiver. There was no way that Jason would have told him, how had he deduced that?

 “Did I say that?” Jason said. “Can’t seem to recall telling you that.”

 “You didn’t have to.”

 When you peeked from behind Jason’s back, you could see the light reflecting off Batman’s eyes—or was it glass? You knew that the helmet that Red Hood wore gave him information on Gotham City and the people he saw. He wondered if Batman had something similar.

 “Do you have any information on who planted that bomb?” the caped vigilante asked.

 “No.”

 You blinked. Just a week ago, you had painted R.H. Kane building in ruins, much like it was now. But you had also painted a figure hidden in shadow. Layers of watercolor had made the person look like an ambiguous blob, more than a little bit abstract. A woman if you looked at it from one angle, and a man in the next.

 Apparently, that had made sense to Jason because when you asked if he had someone in mind, he had replied yes.

But here he was, telling Batman— _Batman—_ that he had no idea who could’ve bombed Kane Building.

 You could feel Batman’s displeasure come off in waves. Maybe this was how he interrogated criminals, just frown at them until they started confessing.

 A hysterical little giggle bubbled to your lips.

 A low growl issued from Batman’s throat, one that went straight to your spine. When he took a step forward, you found your hand fisting in the back of Jason’s jacket.

 If Jason was afraid, he showed no sign of it.

 “She’s a witness. She needs to talk to Gordon about what she might have seen. She needs medical attention.”

 At this, you couldn’t help the terrified little moan that came out of you.  

 Once, you had gone to the police with one of your paintings. They had let you into a room that smelled of rust. There had been scratch marks on the wood desk.

 Somebody had drawn on it with a pen.

 Half an hour, you spent there, your paintings pressed against your chest, as if they could stop the wild beating of your heart. Half an hour of waiting, of sweating, of watching the dust dance in the stark white beam of light.

 Somebody had come to give you coffee in a styrofoam cup. There had been a small insect floating in it, little legs kicking as it struggled to get out of the drink.

 When somebody finally came to talk to you, you were in tears, half-hysterical at the state of the room, convinced that you had caught some disease from sitting there for too long.

 Being questioned by Commissioner Gordon was the last thing you wanted.

 “I can take care of her injuries. She doesn’t need to talk to Gordon, she needs to rest. I’m taking her home, Bats.” His voice was steady, relaxed even, but his fingers brushed lightly against his gun.

 Anyone could have mistaken it for a careless gesture, but you knew that it was anything but.

 You could almost hear the gears in Batman’s head turning. He wanted answers, people like him always did. And they rarely took no for an answer.

 It felt like a band of heated metal closed over your chest; every breath seemed to come too hard. You didn’t want a fight. You didn’t want _Jason_ to fight.

 You opened your mouth to speak, “If you want, I could—”

 “All right.” Batman wasn’t looking at Jason when he spoke, he wasn’t looking at you or the guns that hung from Jason’s hip.

 No, he was looking at the box of antiseptic wipes that you had dropped, and the dirty pile you had discarded. He was looking at the still-open pouch on Jason’s belt.

 “She can leave,” he said.

 Jason relaxed. “Thanks, B.”

 He motioned for you to board the motorcycle.

 “Orient.” For the first time since you met him, Batman sounded unsure.

 You saw the slightest twitch in his face, as if he was threatening to smile.

 “Yes?” you asked.

 “I hope you feel better.”  

 


End file.
